Bravery Crumbles
by Soncnica
Summary: He can't sweat failure out of him.


**A/N: I am feeling extremely sad these days and writing seems to be the only thing where I can loose myself and not think of ... things. So I wrote 3 stories that I will put up in the next couple of days and forgive me if they will be a bit ... blah! I just need to ... deal with things and writing is helping. Ummm, I own nothing and I'm sorry for any grammar/spelling mistakes.**

**Enjoy.**

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When a 'normal' person is sick, walls fall, collapse under the pressure of a headache, melt under the heat of a fever and leave one a begging - _please make it stop_ - mess of greenish snot and hot tears writhing on a bed.

When Sam gets sick, everything stays in place, even if the fever is so strong it could melt stone. He snorts _dude, 'm fine_ even while sucking in globs of snot and wiping his eyes of strange moisture that in his book, are not tears. Even if they are.

He says _'m good_ and rolls his eyes, because he needs to be strong, he needs to show Dean that he won't shatter every time a freaking virus attacks him, a virus, not a vampire or a demon or a ghost. A virus, for cryin' out loud. He needs to be a man about it, even if everything really does hurt and his muscles ache and he can't stop the flow of snot from his nose or the shivers the fever is causing and are running through his whole body. He needs to be fine, because human eating monsters do not care if he's sick and can't breathe properly. Or even see that well really. They will kill and dismember and torture and kidnap and hide and eat and strip flesh off of people and not care that he's sick and can barely keep his eyes open and wheeze his way through a ritual.

He needs to be okay even if all he wants to do is sink into a bed and get high on medicine and not crawl out until he will be feeling at least partly human again. Monsters aren't human.

But he can't do that. There's no vacation time for him, no sick days, nothing. There's no rest for him. No rest for him or Dean. There's just constant alertness and movement and worry. And desire to help and do good, because that's what they had been taught to do. It's in them, just as much as hurting and killing is in the monsters.

"Okay Sam listen, I know, okay, I know, but lets just ... a few hours, okay? Go to bed, sweat it out and then we'll go, okay?"

No. No, he can't. He can't allow people to die, not if he's still perfectly capable of shooting his gun or throwing a knife; even if the gun in his hand wavers and he can't quite grip the handle of the knife strong enough. He can't have more people on his conscious. He can't sweat that out. He can't sweat failure out of him.

"Sammy..."

And the look in his brother's eyes is enough to make him crumble. His knees go weaker, his body sways, his arms start to tingle and shake, his fingers feel heavy, dragging his whole body down to the ground and if Dean's reflexes were anything but warp speed fast, he'd be picking his teeth from the red carpet the motel room has in front of the beds.

"Whoah…" the word is a hot breath near his ear and hands holding him up are hot points over his already too hot skin, but he can't do anything about anything. He wants to shake his brother's grip off of him, because he's strong, he's fine, he's okay, he's good, he needs to go out and save people, kill things, save the world and he can't do that while sinking into first his brother's hold and then the hard bed's.

"There, now lay there and sweat. 'm gonna get you some pills and water. Tea too. Maybe."

A scratchy blanket is pulled over him, all the way up to his chin and he already feels sweat break out under his armpits. Then his hands. Feet. Under his knees. Neck. Face.

He's drowning, while people out there are getting killed. He's getting better, while people out there are getting worse.

He's being saved by his brother, while people out there have no one.

"Here, take these."

There are two small, white pills on his brother's big palm. In his fever scrambled mind, he thinks if those pills will make him as strong as his big brother always taught him to be.

"Sam, take 'em."

He takes them, shoves them down his throat and gets lost in a consuming want to be better. Be faster. Be stronger. Be braver.

"'s okay man, sweat this stuff out and then we'll go kill some sons of bitches."

He'll be brave then, because right now, all he wants to do is whimper and hide.

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**The End**


End file.
